


Best Laid Plans

by compo67



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alpha Jensen, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Small Town, College, Coming of Age, Explicit Sexual Content, Grumpy Jensen, Idiots in Love, Knotting, Lace Panties, Light Angst, M/M, Omega Jared, Oral Sex, Photography, Poetry, Possessive Sex, Sassy Jared, Self-Lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 10:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16911429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: It seems that Jensen's room at The Vienna Lodge has never successfully left the 1930’s. Upon arrival yesterday, he learned that the apartment he paid for in Anna--well in advance--wasn’t quite ready yet and likely wouldn’t be for another month at the very least. He starts the Spring term living out of his suitcases, as a guest in The Vienna Lodge, some twenty miles away from his job at Shawnee Community College.Jensen has a series of plans he has to stick to. Vienna, Illinois is just a blip on his radar, a stepping stone towards something better and he's not going to lose his focus.Nope. Not at all.[Featuring poems by Richard Siken.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to NS for requesting this fic and allowing me to share it with y'all. <3 
> 
> and as always, thanks to my betas T and D for holding my hand every step fo the way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Jensen** :

Jensen’s mother cleans whenever she’s nervous. 

So it follows that on his first night in Vienna, Jensen not only cleans--he scrubs. It seems that his room at The Vienna Lodge has never successfully left the 1930’s. Upon arrival yesterday, he learned that the apartment he paid for in Anna--well in advance--wasn’t quite ready yet and likely wouldn’t be for another month at the very least.

He will start the Spring term living out of his suitcases, as a guest in The Vienna Lodge, some twenty miles away from his job at Shawnee Community College.

It can’t be helped.

His landlord, Maud, assured him that her sister-in-law, Lucy, would take good care of him in Vienna. Maud was also the first of many folks to correct his pronunciation. 

“It ain’t Vee-enna,” she had said, her fingers sticky with biscuit dough as they spoke in her kitchen. She’s a short, stout woman, with red hair and bright, determined blue eyes. “It’s Vy-anna. You’re best off with Lucy instead of staying at one of ‘em motels in Jonesboro or one of the sleepin’ shacks behind the Walmart where all the truckers stop. Trust me, that’s where’in you wanna be this time of year.”

Jensen didn’t want to try living in his flooded apartment, especially in early January, but Maud hadn’t mentioned that Lucy, at eighty years old, couldn’t exactly keep up with running a Lodge. 

He arrives at sunset and Lucy immediately tries to help him with his suitcases. He cringes at the thought of other people taking advantage of her offers. As polite as possible, he says he can manage. He won’t move everything out of his pickup truck, just the necessities. Lucy follows him during the two trips it takes to move four suitcases from his truck to his room on the second floor. She’s taller than Maud, and thin as a rail; she keeps her white hair combed into a bun, which reminds him of bunny tail. He lets her talk, the same way he let the landscape from Texas to southern Illinois pass by. 

From Anna to Vienna, all he noticed were hay bales, miles and miles of trees, mobile homes, and two gas stations.

This is… different.

At midnight, Jensen sits on the cold hardwood floor, dressed in the pair of jeans he wore two years ago to help his father paint the living room. Splotches of Perfect Pistachio stubbornly cling to the denim the same way Jensen tried to cling to Texas. The paint had more success.

He stares at the once-blue-now-gray floral wallpaper that covers every wall. 

With the few cleaning supplies he made sure to pack, he managed to scrub the hardwood floors clean, dust every surface, including the lace curtains hanging over the only window in the room, and disinfect whatever he might touch. His private bathroom--although fortunate to have--took most of his effort and patience. The water ran an orange, rusted color for the first five minutes he had the faucet and shower on. Grime had built up in the shower, forming intricate patterns and refused to disappear only after Jensen scrubbed it down three times. 

Fatigue from driving eight hours presses at him to climb into bed. Common sense demands a shower first, but he’d like to let the disinfectant and grime remover sit for another few hours. 

This is better than the motel he stayed at on the border of Tennessee and Arkansas.

But not by much.

He aired out the quilt and sheets by hanging them over his suitcases, but when he strips down to his boxer briefs and crawls into the lumpy, too-short, full-sized bed, he can still feel a layer of stubborn dust. 

Shutting his eyes, he pushes more unpleasant memories out of his mind, but the eerie silence of the Lodge allows the memories to reign free. He promised his mother he’d be just fine living so far away from her. He promised he’d call on a regular basis to keep her posted until he could make a drive back down to Texas for a visit. It hasn’t been a year since his father died and the two of them are just starting to glimpse the other side of grief. 

Jensen tosses and turns within the small space of his bed. He applied to every single opening for adjunct and full-time positions at either community colleges and four year colleges. With only his Master’s in English, he struggled amongst the already difficult competition. There are simply too many applicants and too few jobs, and he only just graduated with his MA last May. He could have gone straight from his MA to a PhD program, if he had been willing to take on another set of loans.

Those loans look better by the minute as he listens to the nothingness of Vienna. 

Over the next few days, Jensen roams through his new surroundings and makes a trip out to the Walmart. He buys a new package of highlighters, bleach, magic erasers, and an induction cooktop. Every morning, Lucy offers to make him breakfast, however, her culinary skills extend to the only working appliance in the kitchen aside from the refrigerator: the microwave. One morning of microwaved frozen waffles and weak coffee is all it took to convince Jensen to spend a little more money on the cooktop. 

He doesn’t mind eating at the McDonald’s, the Casey’s, or the diner, but those options either involve spending money, eating greasy food, or interacting with the locals. If one more person comments on his pronunciation of Vienna and his accent, he’s driving back to Texas full speed.

All the glories and wonders of Vienna offer themselves up on a fifteen minute walk. Ain’t much to see, ain’t much to do--as the locals say.

At the very least, this excess of time gifts him with time to fine tune the syllabus for his three English 101 classes. If there were a way to sacrifice to the higher education gods in order to not teach introductory composition classes, he would have done so threefold by now. 

With any luck, he’ll find a full-time position at a university by the time he turns twenty-five. Then he can earn his PhD by thirty, become Dean of a respected English department, and not ever let that job go until death pries it from his hands. Somewhere during his PhD program, he should find an omega mate, date them, marry them, and have children. 

These are his plans. Plans are good. Plans help make goals a reality. 

Shawnee Community College begins its Spring Term mid-January, on a bitterly cold, gray day. 

Out of seven sections of English 101, Jensen teaches three. He sets up his desk in the tiny, stuffy English department and hastily introduces himself to his colleagues, some of whom seem barely awake--not at all eager to start the new semester. 

Minutes into his first class, Jensen sees the reason for the lack of enthusiasm. 

He brings out his shut-the-fuck-up-and-pay-attention voice fifteen minutes in, then again at thirty minutes in, and once before he releases his twenty-three students into the wild of the world. 

Halfway through his second class, he places his hands on his desk, leans forward, and announces, “I will not make this class easy. I will fail anyone without hesitation or remorse as deserved. If you are unwilling to put time and effort into this class, it will be the most difficult class you take here. This isn’t high school, you aren’t high schoolers, and you are here to either learn or waste your money.” 

More than one face twists in a combination of anger. 

Jensen pushes on and stands up, his posture ramrod straight. “I wasn’t hired to babysit y’all. I was hired to improve the academic outcomes of students who take this course at this college. Open your textbooks to the first chapter.”

At the end of the day, Jensen trudges back to his room at The Vienna Lodge. 

What constitutes as a good day in this new life?

He showers, climbs into bed, and immediately falls asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Jared:**

Jared only wears red Chuck Taylor high tops. No other shoe will do.

On a Sunday morning, upbeat pop-soul music fills the crowded space of Jared’s room. He dances in perfect rhythm to the call and response track filtering out of his Aunt Maria’s ancient boombox. In his worn Chucks, worn running shorts, and equally worn oversized sweater, he imagines himself dancing on a stage. People in the audience marvel at the twists and turns of his hips. 

An imaginary partner dares to ask for a dance. Jared flips his hair, turns, and walks the fuck away.

Absolutely no one cuts in on  _ his  _ thunder.

“Jared! Turn that off and hurry up! You’re going to make us late for church.” Aunt Maria cuts in on his thunder without a problem. 

She looks at him from the doorway of his room, balancing a laundry basket on her hip. A smile tugs at her mouth, totally failing at preserving a stern exterior. “Angelita is not going to be happy when she sees you wearing her lip gloss again.” 

“Angie doesn’t scare me,” Jared huffs, shooting his Aunt a smile. “This lip gloss gives me superhuman strength.”

“Okay, but even those with superhuman lip gloss strength need to get to church on time, so vamos.” She nods towards the hallway. “There’s good news for you once we get to church.” 

One outfit change and a car ride later, Jared files into church with the rest of his family. Uncle Grant leads their flock to the first pew from the front. A large, tall man, Uncle Grant prefers sitting front row center. While Jared seems to have inherited his father’s and Uncle Grant’s height, he could care less about where he sits in church.

All he wants to do is get back to his room so he can continue to ignore the adult world around him.

The four cousins sit sandwiched in between Aunt Maria and Uncle Grant. Jared often wonders if Aunt Maria ever envisioned her life turning out this way--marrying an alpha in the middle of nowhere, Illinois. Whenever she talks about her childhood in Arizona--the daughter of Mexican immigrants--it seems like life was infinitely more interesting in the Southwest. Nothing ever happens in Vienna. 

Technically still a high school senior, Jared started two classes at the community college in Anna two weeks ago. He jumped at the chance to get two general education courses out of the way for free. However, English 203 and Math 205 have not been any more interesting than his other high school classes. 

He expected stimulating lectures, engaging debate, and enlightened classmates. 

Nothing that exciting could happen to Jared. The one benefit to being a student at Shawnee is access to their library. It’s ten times the size of Vienna High School’s measly library. His chest aches when he thinks about potentially missing classes tomorrow. No one can drive him, which is a testament to the suffering he endures on a daily basis.

Alicia, his oldest cousin, sits next to Uncle Grant. She is the ideal eldest daughter, responsible, level-headed, and obedient. She plans to follow Vienna tradition and stay put, build roots. Jared can’t think of anything more boring. Overwhelmingly, folks work for either of the two state prisons in some capacity or move to a slightly larger town like Anna. Or, if they’re  _ really _ adventurous, Carbondale. 

Angelita elbows Jared in the ribs. “That’s my lip gloss,” she grumbles and kicks his leg. 

“And that’s my sweater,” Jared grumbles back. “It’s a fair trade.”

“I was cold,” Angelita quips and flips her shoulder length hair. 

“Yeah, it’s January, dingus.” 

The youngest of the cousins, at nine years old, Maricella shushes them and studies her children’s Bible. Both Jared and Angelita roll their eyes. 

Uncle Grant works second shift as a Corrections Officer at Shawnee Correctional Center, while Aunt Maria is the charge nurse at Vienna Correctional Center. Neither of them require words to communicate to their flock of children the importance of being quiet and being quiet  _ now _ . 

For forty-five minutes, Jared tries his best not to receive another Look from his Aunt or Uncle. He kicks Angelita, she kicks him back. Alicia tries to throw them a Look, but it barely registers. She’s nineteen and enjoys lording it over Angelita and Jared, who are only two months apart in age. Angelita and Jared have followed the same plan since they were babies: do the exact opposite as Alicia. 

The sermon ends, but that doesn’t mean church ends. Now they enter the highlight of every adult’s week: the opportunity to stand around and talk, usually about each other. 

Jared and Angelita split up to cover the most ground for prime eavesdropping. He pretends to read the church newsletter while listening to Mrs. Burns tell Mrs. Oakley that her eldest, Sean, is expecting. Mrs. Oakley begins to congratulate Mrs. Burns, but pulls back when Mrs. Burns shares that the alpha father, “Ain’t from around here.” 

Outsiders are a strange, rare spectacle in Vienna, viewed with suspicion and curiosity. 

In Vienna, everyone knows everyone. And if someone doesn’t know someone, that just ain’t right. 

“From Milwaukee,” Mrs. Burns mumbles in a whisper. “Might as well be from the moon.” 

Mrs. Oakley clutches her bag. “Good Lord. Well.” She leans in and her own voice drops to a whisper. “Count yourself fortunate it didn’t happen the other way around. Sean could have moved  _ there _ .” 

After another two minutes, Jared attempts to move to another cluster of gossip. 

Aunt Maria yanks him over to her side by the collar of his shirt. She’d probably smack him upside the head if she could reach him. “Jared,” she says with a smile that lets him know he best behave. “This is the good news I told you about.” 

She motions to Mr. Dennison, an older man, retired from the police department. 

For a second, Jared panics, thinking she means to introduce them as potential mates. Tradition dictates mated pairs to consist of older alphas and younger omegas. But holy cow, this is one helluva age difference.

“He found you a ride to school,” his Aunt announces, patting his back, sensing his momentary anxiety. She turns to Mr. Dennison. “We really cannot thank you enough. Grant and I work such odd hours, and I don’t feel right havin’ him drive all the way to Anna on his own during winter. This is wonderful. Isn’t it?” 

“Yes…” Jared clears his throat. “Thank you?” 

Mr. Dennison nods, his arms behind his back. “No trouble at all. Ain’t right for an omega to drive that far unaccompanied.” 

Before Jared can reply that he does  _ not _ need to be treated like a delicate flower, Aunt Maria assures Mr. Dennison that no one can be too careful. Mr. Reid pulls Mr. Dennison away. The second he’s out of earshot, Aunt Maria shakes her head at Jared. 

“I wouldn’t match you with someone old enough to be your grandfather.”

“I don’t know,” Jared sighs. “You could be getting desperate.”

For the past year, she’s tried her best to gently convince Jared to find an alpha, mate, and settle down. She has no issues with him pursuing an education. Her concern lies in the fear of the unknown. Without an alpha, who will provide for him? 

“Not  _ that _ desperate,” she quips. “Anyway, Mr. Dennison won’t be the one driving you. Seems we’ve had someone new move into town and he teaches at your school. It’s a shame he doesn’t attend church.” 

“It’s  _ college _ , not just ‘school,’” Jared corrects. He swings his arms, then stuffs his hands into his pockets. “And ugh, I’ll be riding with a teacher. It’s gonna be the longest twenty minutes there and twenty minutes back ever.”

Aunt Maria laughs and fixes the collar of his shirt. “Bless your bleedin’ heart, how awful. I hope you survive this horrible experience until you go to Southern.” 

Not only do his Aunt and Uncle want Jared to hurry up and pick a mate, but they’re also holding a candle for him to attend Southern Illinois University in Carbondale. Jared narrowly avoids rolling his eyes in response. To appease them, he applied to SIU’s dismal Photography program. 

Jared’s parents died in a car accident when he was six years old. Uncle Grant and Aunt Maria brought him into their home and made him one of their own. He owes them everything. Going to SIU would mean paying in-state, public University tuition. And he’ll be an hour away from the family, in a relatively familiar city. 

If he gets into SIU, that’s fine. But his heart is set on somewhere much bigger than Carbondale.

Chicago.

Even if he has to spend forty minutes in the car of some boring teacher, it’s still a means to an end. One day, he’ll be dancing around his dorm room at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, two blocks away from The Magnificent Mile. 

Admissions letters go out in April for both SIU and SAIC. 

All he has to do is stay out of trouble until then.


	4. Chapter 4

**Jensen:**

Vienna has only two real estate brokers: Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen.

It also only has one cafe, which both Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen frequent. Mrs. Nguyen presents a few somewhat compelling arguments as towards why Jensen should stop renting and purchase a home in Vienna. She could get him a deal just two blocks from the cafe. For only seventy-five thousand dollars, he could be the proud owner of eighty acres and a three bedroom, three bathroom home. As an omega herself, she states that nothing is more appealing to omegas than homeownership.

Jensen hauls his piles of papers over to Miss Leona’s Diner.

Owning a home is not in his plan--not yet.

He approaches Miss Leona herself at the counter. “Can I grade here?”

Vienna does not offer a wide selection of dining establishments. Mr. Nguyen’s sister runs a small banh-mi shop on Cherry and Maple. There’s a Mexican restaurant on Vine and Oak, a soul food place on 5th and Main, and of course, a Chinese take out joint next to the McDonald’s. Exactly none of those places are conducive to concentrating and getting work done.

At least Miss Leona’s is relatively quiet on a Sunday evening.

A tall woman with a deep voice, Miss Leona gives Jensen a healthy glance from her place behind the counter. “Oh, my. Of course _you_ can. Make yourself comfortable in one of the booths. Coffee?”

“Please,” Jensen replies, relieved. He wouldn’t have moved in with Lucy had he known she hosts poker on Sunday nights.

The Poker Club of Vienna--six elderly ladies, Lucy included--could not be persuaded to minimize their noise. Their only suggestion was that Jensen forget about his grading and join them for strip poker.

Good god, he misses Texas.

Without further delay, he settles into one of the waxy, red booths. Miss Leona and her staff keep the small diner clean and tidy, though it shows its age in the details like the broken napkin dispensers and chipped formica tables. Seated, Jensen begins organizing his sea of student papers. So far, with the fear of god shot into them, a little more than three quarters of his total students have turned in something. Quite a few papers have earned A’s. He remains hopeful, even though the topics he’s forced to dole out have been drier than a bone.

“Honey,” Miss Leona leans over the window at the grill. “Take a cup of coffee to Mr. Fine and Dandy over there.”

“But I’m _so_ busy,” a new voice whines.

“Child, what I have I told you about sarcasm in this establishment?”

“Only two sarcastic comments a day--I know, I know.”

“And how many is that?”

“Four.”

“Five! Now go. And don’t bother him. I don’t want him going back to Annie’s. I like having him where I can see his tight little...”

The new voice begs and snaps to attention. “Stop! I’m going, I’m going!”

This voice belongs to a young, tall, male omega with long hair pulled back in a ponytail. His lips shine with a streak of coral shimmer. Lively hazel eyes meet his with an impetuous and addictive confidence. A smile flashes to reveal a set of perfect dimples. His oversized, pale blue sweater, faded jeans, and half-apron around his waist hint at hidden curves.

Currents of electricity spark through Jensen’s fingertips and lead all the way up to the maddening blush on his face. Or that could be the coffee spilling over his cup.

“Sorry,” his server says with a sweet, apologetic tone. “I spilled a bit.”

Holy shit.

Jensen is about to spill if he doesn’t calm the fuck down. He clears his throat and nods, too choked up to force words out. The muscles in his shoulders tense--along with a few other muscles further south. He tries and fails to stop indulging in the scent of more than just coffee. Vanilla. Fabric softener. Dial soap.

Clearly aware of how he looks and his influence on those around him, the server grins. “Anything else you’d like?”

 _You_ , Jensen internally screams, frustrated with these annoying, baser instincts. He’s working. Or should be working. Not staring. He’s practically drooling.

He should climb on top of this table and declare to the diner that he did _not_ move across four state lines, away from everything and everyone he loves, just to fall prey to his knot.

Or he could climb on top of…

“No,” Jensen blurts out in a growl and turns to his papers. “I’m fine.”

“I thought so,” the server purrs. “I’m Tristan, by the way.” He points to a book on the table. “I’ve read that.”

Jensen decides to be cruel and quotes a line from the middle of the book. “‘What would you like?’”

Tristan decides to be equally, if not more, cruel. He licks his lips and speaks in a dark, alluring voice. “‘I’d like my money’s worth. Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this--swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood on the first four knuckles.’” He smirks; his noses scrunches as he does. “Yes, I’ve _actually_ read it. It’s my favorite. I’m working on a photography project right now inspired by poetry.”

Miss Leona hollers at Tristan to leave Jensen to his work. Reluctantly, Jensen tears his eyes away from A Very Bad Idea and back to the pile of essays about favorite poems.

He takes a sip of coffee and another line taunts him.

 _But damn if there isn’t anything sexier than a slender boy with a handgun, a fast car, and a bottle of pills_.

This could be a problem.


	5. Chapter 5

**Jared:**

On the weekends, Jared helps out at Miss Leona’s. During lulls, when he’s not cleaning or washing dishes, he works on school assignments or reads through the newest book from the library.

The tips and pay he receives go towards the cost of photography materials and a savings account opened in his name right after his parents died. Through the years, thanks to interest and different odd jobs, he’s added two thousand dollars, bringing the total up to eight. 

He hopes to make it an even ten by the end of the summer. 

As one of the premier private art schools in the country, the School of the Art Institute Chicago costs about forty thousand dollars a year. That’s not even taking into account the cost of room and board, books, supplies, and the basic necessities for living in the city. Very few folks from Vienna--especially omegas--continue education past high school. If they do, most are satisfied with schools no more than an hour or two away. 

Situated five hours north, SAIC gleams like a gem in Jared’s mind. 

It sucks ass to wake up at six in the morning for an eight o’clock Math class. He rolls out of bed, grumbling and swearing under his breath about the chill. At this hour, he has to fight with Angelita for control over the bathroom, then amble downstairs to listen to Uncle Grant lecture about avoiding hypothermia by eating a proper breakfast. 

And today, Jared has to suffer through his first of many car rides to and from his classes at Shawnee. His Aunt and Uncle would rather exact this misery on him than let him drive their cars. If he hints at wanting to drive to Anna, they unleash more lectures.

But it will all be worth it. 

Standing in the driveway, Jared awaits the poor unfortunate who was selected for this show of good faith to the townspeople. He buries his hands in the pockets of his red hoodie and tucks his nose into the blue scarf Alicia knitted for him last winter. 

Transcripts. Essays. Letters of recommendation. Standardized test scores. He repeats these to himself over and over, hoping to help his body temperature. Eyes closed, he pictures the pages of the portfolio he painstakingly crafted and submitted back in October. 

_ I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure, I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. _

He focused on pictures of the landscape surrounding Vienna. It’s easy for Jared to look at it as barren and devoid of opportunity. It isn’t filled with promise or potential for him, but it is for many others, his own family included. He submitted pictures of the prisons, the hay bales and trailers along the highway, the courthouse, the diner, the two gas stations, a few working and a few vacant farms, and every traffic light--all two of them. 

He assumes he’ll feel homesick for a while, but expects more of a sensation of claustrophobia around the skyscrapers and buildings of Chicago. 

What will it be like to wait for a cab instead of the pick up truck that slowly pulls into the long driveway? 

Exhaust curls from the muffler of the truck, which is not quite new, but nicer in appearance than most of the trucks in Vienna. Jared slaps on a smile and trudges to the passenger side door. Best get this over with. It will all be worth it in the end. 

At the wheel, hot guy from the diner last night stares at Jared. 

“Oh fuck,” Jared blurts out and laughs. “Either you’re really lost or this is one hell of a coincidence.” 

Prying his eyes away from Jared, Mr. Fine and Dandy grips onto the steering wheel. “I’m supposed to pick up Jared Padalecki.”

“Yup.” Jared climbs into the truck and shuts the door. He promptly puts on his seatbelt and settles into the plush seat. “That would be me. Tristan’s my middle name.”

Mr. Ackles clears his throat and attempts to focus on driving. “Do you go by your middle name? Or you just like misleading strangers?” 

“I use my middle name when I flirt with older men I expect never to see again.” 

“Why would I grade papers in a diner if I didn’t live here?” 

“All kinds of people pass through here,” Jared huffs and rolls his eyes. Vienna fades into the stretches of the 146. The truck smells like pine, fancy cologne, and cheap coffee. There’s something else under those everyday scents, something sharper, darker in nature that causes Jared to lick his lips. 

He knows exactly how older alphas look at him and what they think about.

While he remains uninterested in any of the alphas in Vienna or Anna, that doesn’t mean he can’t harvest some joy from teasing and flirting with them. If an alpha can leer, Jared can leer right back.

“Bet you wanted to see me again though,” Jared murmurs and stretches out his legs. He does not sit with his knees touching. Layers of winter clothing can’t compare to the baby doll shirts he borrows from Angelita in the summer, but he wore his favorite pair of jeans today and they are clearly visible.

Aunt Maria didn’t provide much more information about the teacher other than his name and the color of his truck. While Mr. Ackles white knuckles the steering wheel, Jared allows himself a cool drink of alpha, made all the more refreshing by his mysterious background. Anyone who hasn’t grown up in Vienna or Anna has a mysterious background, whether or not that’s actually the case. 

“You know, Mr. Ackles, you should grow a beard,” Jared comments, his tone light yet crisp. “I bet it’d come in kind of ginger.”

It would certainly help accent that sharp, solid jaw line. 

Freckles dot the bridge of Mr. Ackles’ nose and the plane of his hands. Jared smiles to himself, ninety-nine percent confident those freckles extend to more interesting places. 

Finally, Mr. Ackles stops gripping the steering wheel. He glances over at Jared in the same manner Jared sneaks peeks at his jeans to try and make out an outline of what’s underneath. 

“As long as I’m driving you,” he grumbles, self consciously rubbing his chin, “just call me Jensen.” He catches Jared’s grin and adds, “Do  _ not _ abuse the privilege.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jared coos. “Let me just say, Jensen, I  _ really _ appreciate the ride.” 

There’s flirting and teasing alphas, which Jared enjoys primarily because he plans on leaving Vienna, not settling down with any of them  _ ever _ . He’s only entertained the idea of fooling around with an alpha. Now, as the truck drives along the highway and Jared feels every bump on the road, heat pools in his hips. The heater keeps them warm, but it also causes a tinge of discomfort. It’s almost too much--the rocking, the privacy, and the intense, distracting spice of pure alpha pheromones. 

They sit in a silence that feels like the first few moments of cream combining with coffee. 

Jared prays that he smells just as appetizing to Jensen. 

Neither of them speak, though there are certainly questions to be asked. Jared closes his eyes and focuses on breathing, trying not to let his mind get carried away. 

_ His shoulder blots out the stars but the minutes don’t stop. He covers my body with his body but the minutes don’t stop. The smell of him mixed with creosote, exhaust-- _

The road ends.

Shawnee Community College stares at them from the grim, dreary outside. 

“Out of all places,” Jared sighs, “why’d you pick this one?” 

Jensen cuts the engine. Almost immediately, cold seeps in, though it’s not entirely unwelcome. It’s a miracle the truck doesn’t emit steam.

“A job’s a job,” Jensen answers, then dares to meet Jared’s eyes. “I only teach English 101.”

“That’s a shame.” Jared commits the gentle slope of Jensen’s accent to memory. “I’m in English 203.”

Over the past few years, Jared has learned the painful art of “less is more.” It might kill him to wait for Jensen to reach his own conclusion about what happens next. If Jensen doesn’t go for it, Jared might…

Jensen takes a deep breath. He exhales and his thoughts are just about visible. “So you’re not one of my students.”

“Nope.” 

“And it seems like you know what you want.”

“I meant it when I said I  _ really _ appreciate the ride.”

The corners of Jensen’s shapely mouth turn up in a brief smile. He nods, then opens his door and climbs out. For a tortuous second, hesitation seems to pull at him. Jared returns the smile and flips his hair before opening his door. He jumps out and they look at each other from across the interior of the truck.

“Meet me back here at three,” Jensen says, his voice darker than before. Before he shuts his door, he adds, “We’ll see about another ride.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Jensen:**

Jensen cleans out the faculty refrigerator. 

He scrubs it down to within an inch of its life. 

Wouldn’t it be satisfying to knock that smirk off of Jared’s face and replace it with a breathless gasp. With ease, his mind drifts into autopilot as he wraps up and gathers papers to take home. He might smell like bleach and soap, but his attention clings to the scent of a confident, smug omega. This omega is exactly the kind of  _ wrong, bad, wrong _ distraction and potential for professional conflict of interest. 

It might not be a stretch if said omega were taking only Math or Science courses on campus this semester. Already, Jensen has spent the majority of his time in class today overthinking and overanalyzing the situation. The age difference doesn’t bother him. He’s within his bounds in that aspect--older alphas and younger omegas make the best mated pairs. 

What bothers him are the unknown variables. 

This situation snuck up on him and it digs at him, underneath the collar of his pressed shirt. He should not be sniffing around the messiness of a sexual relationship with an unattached omega--at his place of employment. 

Jared may not be his student, but he is  _ a _ student. 

Jensen snaps his briefcase shut harder than he means to. Reasonable alphas go about their lives making responsible decisions. Risk has no business in Jensen’s life plans. Stray from the formula and he could end up the center of a scandal. 

And the people of Vienna don’t have much else to do than chew on pieces of juicy gossip. 

What if he takes Jared’s not very subtle offer… 

Long legs. Lean thighs. Tight ass. Shuddering gasps. Sweeter and hotter than he has any right to be. 

No. Nope. Not going there.

Okay, but the kid can quote poetry. When was the last time Jensen met anyone who could not only quote poetry, but understand his references? It was a fluke. It had to have been a fluke. 

What if they sleep together and Jared becomes attached? What if Jensen felt the need to break it off? What if Jared doesn’t take it well and blackmails him? What if this whole thing blows up in his face just because he wanted to get blown? 

He should drive back to Vienna with the windows rolled down and the heater turned off. 

Then, later tonight, he should call his mother, have a stiff drink, and go the fuck to bed. 

Resolved, Jensen storms out to the frigid parking lot and climbs into his truck. There will be no hanky panky. There will be no fooling around. There will be calm, cool professionalism. There will be a goddamn lecture on the history of the Oxford comma if he has to. There will absolutely be a discussion about the appropriate relationship between a student and a teacher, followed by an outline of behavioral expectations, finished off with a final warning about boundaries which will not be crossed under any circumstances.

Jared approaches the truck with his head held high, chin tipped forward, and dimples on display. A flip of his hair, a flash of a smile, and he hops into the truck. 

“Hey,” Jared murmurs and immediately peels off his coat. “Ah, that’s refreshing. They keep the classrooms so hot, don’t you think?” He then leans forward to rummage through his backpack in the footwell. A stripe of skin, a display of muscle, and the evidence of an extensive range of motion.

_ I’m battling monsters, I’m pulling you out of the burning buildings and you say, “I’ll give you anything,” but you never come through. _

Maybe it’s time to start driving.

“Hmm.” Jared settles into his seat. “So we’re gonna go for all stoic, huh? I can deal with that.” 

Jensen chooses not to reply. He chooses to keep his hands on the steering wheel and eyes on the road.

Jared licks his lips, a fresh coat of gloss on them. “I don’t really need you to talk much anyway.” He continues to absentmindedly twirl his hair around his finger while looking out the window. “I love the stoic thing--means we don’t have to pretend nothing. I’m sure you’re totally fine to let me ramble while you sit there trying not to stare at my ass.” 

Without thinking, Jensen starts to refute the accusation. “That is  _ not _ …”

“Oh no,” Jared cuts him short. “This is the part where you compliment my ass--not argue.”

“Are you always such a pain?” Jensen grumbles, clenching the steering wheel. “You’re mighty full of yourself for someone still in high school.” 

“I have a natural talent for pissing people off.” With a laugh, Jared adds, “And calling bullshit. It’s more than fine for you to stare at my ass. But please, drop the martyr act. I’m not asking you to mate me, marry me, and buy me a house. I’m saying…” He runs a hand through his hair, then places his arm on the back of the seat, barely an inch away from Jensen’s shoulder. “You’ve got a nice pair of jeans and I’d like to test the zipper--not to be too crude about it.”

Jensen clears his throat and rolls down his window. Words fail him, which is just as well, because he’s about to snap the steering wheel in half. 

Jared hums a tune, completely unfazed by the lack of response. 

Twenty grueling minutes later, Jensen does not drive Jared home. He pulls up to a different destination.

Laughing, Jared shakes his head. “You’re bringing me to Miss Lucy’s?” 

Jensen grits out a reply. “There a problem?”

“Yeah,” Jared snickers and ties his hair into a ponytail. “You take me up to your room and I guarantee you everyone within a five block radius will know you’ve fucked me.”

“Then where do you suggest we go, Your Highness?” 

“Your Highness is right--see, you’re catching on already.”

“If your suggestion is a field or the back of the truck…”

“Ye of little faith.” Jared digs out a set of keys from his backpack. “Ask and ye shall receive. The good lord helps those who help themselves and whatever.” He points North. “Go up the street, make a right, keep on for a few miles and we’ll be there in no time.”

This is madness. A lapse in judgment. If he turns around now, he can take Jared home, no questions. No mess. No chaos. No harm, no foul. 

So for whatever reason, Jensen drives North, makes a right, keeps on for a few miles, and drives up to an abandoned, shuttered cafe on an empty lot off a back road. Cold, he rubs his hands together, as he follows Jared into the supposed promised land. 

“Ain’t it great,” Jared declares, tossing his backpack down onto the dusty floor. He opens his arms wide.

“It’s horrific,” Jensen snaps. “And it’s freezing.” 

“Well, shit. I was kind of thinking we could make our own heat.”

Jensen looks around at the cobwebs and the dreary signs of another era in time. Broken tables and chairs litter the largest room, along with discarded newspapers and a pile of CDs. A block of booths line one of the cracked walls where a chill seeps in. 

Oddly enough, the one pleasant thing is the lingering smell of coffee grounds.

He tests out one of the booths. Nothing bites him. Nothing reaches out from underneath the table and grabs him. So far, so good. The booth even has a good bounce to it still. He takes a deep breath.

In a tone much like the one he uses in class, Jensen issues a direct order. 

“Come here.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Jared:**

“It’s cute how you think you’re in charge,” Jared quips and turns away from Jensen. “And as much as I’d probably fuck you anywhere, follow me.” 

Jensen heaves a dramatic sigh, but eventually heeds the command.“Where are we going now?” 

“This is my secret hideout.” Jared grabs his backpack and nods towards the back of house. “Ain’t much privacy anywhere decent.” 

“We could’ve stayed in Anna,” Jensen grumbles, his boots loud on the hardwood floors. 

Before he reveals the best part of what used to be Chuck’s Coffee Cave, Jared issues his best stare at Jensen. He leans against the doorframe of what used to be Chuck’s office. “Everyone in Anna knows everyone in Vienna. There are two by the hour’s in Anna and my Aunt is friends with both the ladies who work the front desk.”

Unexpectedly closing the distance between them, Jensen leans in towards Jared, one hand on the doorframe. “You must do this often, huh?” 

Biting down on his bottom lip, Jared fights to contain his excitement. This is  _ happening _ . And what’s more, it’s happening with someone who seems to have looks  _ and _ substance. “What happened? Now you’re a talker?” 

Jensen frowns. His eyes flash with something Jared can’t pin down in words. Something like grief.

And wow, this is totally the wrong time for grief. 

“That’s what I figured,” Jared snickers. He turns and opens the door. “Chuck used to run this place like a well-oiled machine. It was Vienna’s only twenty-four hour coffee shop, or cave, whatever. Better coffee than the stuff at Miss Leona’s. Of course, the man practically lived here.” 

When Chuck realized it was easier to live at work, he converted his office into a more comfortable set-up. Jared reveals a tidy, clean space complete with a twin bed and a gas heater. 

Relieved, Jensen steps into the room. 

Jared works his magic on the heater and seconds later, it comes to life with a warm, flickering flame. “You know, when Chuck had to fold ‘cause his momma in Phoenix got sick, they shut off all the utilities. But the gas--all they do is turn a lever at the meter out back. Long as I don’t run it too often, they don’t notice. Every two weeks I come in here to clean the place up, change the sheets out, and…” 

Rough, solid, and impatient hands grab Jared by the shoulders and yank him in for the kind of kiss made to shut him up and lay him down. 

For all the coaxing it took for this to occur, Jensen wastes no time. He kisses like he aims to leave bruises--not that Jared has anything against that--and he tastes like rich, dark coffee. 

“Fuck,” Jared punches out, flat on his back against the mattress. “That’s more like it.”

“Do you ever,” Jensen huffs, “stop talking?”

“Spank me if you don’t like it.” Jared grins and reaches for Jensen’s belt. “It’s the only way I’ll learn.”

Jensen rolls his eyes and bats Jared’s hand away. “Real talk: are you a virgin?” 

“Do you want me to be?” Jared spreads his legs open to accommodate the heft of Jensen between them.

“Answer,” Jensen growls. He withdraws his touch, a somewhat cruel action that leaves Jared cold. 

After a frustrated sigh, Jared replies, “No, I’m not a virgin. Were you gonna walk if I said I was?”

Grief and a somber kind of concern--that’s what seems to flash in Jensen’s eyes.  _ A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river but then he’s still left with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away but then he’s still left with his hands _ .

“Yeah,” Jensen answers, plain and simple. 

“Well, rest assured that this ain’t a Days Inn either.”

That gets a flash of a smile. Jared pulls Jensen down by the collar of his shirt. Their lips meet and it is perfect. So fucking perfect. Not too much tongue. Not too much teeth. Not too much spit. Just the right amount of everything all at once, with enough restraint to leave Jared hungry for more. 

All he has to do is hold out for a few more months and he’ll be off to Chicago. But goddamn, this is a nice distraction to pass the time. 

Jensen’s lips feel as plush as they look. His mouth travels and Jared’s breath hitches. Jaw. Throat. Chest. He tugs at the hem of Jared’s shirt and Jared all but rips it off himself, followed quickly by his jeans. After a few more starved kisses, Jared requires Jensen’s clothes to also disappear.

Lemon drop sunlight filters in through the slits of the drawn curtains over the windowpane. Stubble drags over Jared’s abdomen. Jared holds his breath for an impossible amount of time. Holy shit. An alpha, going down on him? Without being asked? At the risk of potentially not getting anything in return? Shock. Shock and  _ joy _ . 

“Oh my god,” Jared blurts out and tries not to clamp his thighs shut too tight around Jensen. 

Pink lips seal over the sensitive tip of Jared’s cock. Pressure. Heat. Wet suction. Jensen doesn’t stop there. He takes Jared in down to the base in one, long, pulsing swallow. Before Jared can issue praise, Jensen’s cheeks hollow out. Jared can feel his cock bump up against the back of Jensen’s throat--his eyes water and he bites down on his lip in a struggle not to come right then and there.

Alphas almost never do this.

And they certainly  _ never _ ever eat out omegas. 

Jensen pops off with a smack of his lips. He doesn’t bother to wipe his mouth or pause to take a breath. Nope. He goes right for it, without a scrap of hesitation or second guessing. With his right hand, he grasps Jared’s cock, his grip rough and commanding. He licks at the ring of muscle with set determination, lapping up the slick quickly gathering. 

Sticky, Jensen doesn’t stop to complain about the mess. He does quite the opposite--he relishes the taste and sensation. 

Fingers tangled in it, Jared tries not to rip out a chunk of Jensen’s hair. That’s probably the least he could do. The second Jensen’s tongue slips inside him, he floats. 

“Shit,” Jensen mumbles, pulling back for a tortuous second. “Shit, shit, shit.” 

There goes the floating sensation. Jared plummets. He raises his head. “Wrong words right now,” he snarls. “What is…”

Jensen sits up and starts fishing for his jeans, wiping his mouth in the process. “You better pray we’re both lucky and I have a condom.” 

“ _ I _ have condoms,” Jared snorts and kicks Jensen in the ass. “Is something the fuck up?” 

Eyebrows raised, Jensen shoots him a look. “You got condoms in my size?” 

“Please.” Jared rolls his eyes. “Condoms fit over grapefruits.”

“First of all,” Jensen laughs and shakes his head. He pulls a condom out from his wallet and holds it up in triumph. “I don’t wanna know how you know that. Second of all, it might fit, but it sure as shit doesn’t fit comfortably.” 

Alphas and their obsession with size. Jared opens his mouth to make a comment, but then, he sees… it.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Jensen says with a shrug and avoids eye contact. “You can back out.”

Jared’s mouth waters. He sits up and openly stares at the cup that runneth over. “Are you kidding? I like you for your personality, but that dick sure is a bonus.” 

“You have a way with words. How many times have you done this?”

“Uhh…” Jared looks up at the ceiling. “In general? Exactly twice.” Blood rushes to his face. “With someone older and uh… as impressive as you? Never.”

Jensen’s eyes make quick work of Jared. How can they be naked, on a bed, and not fucking like rabbits right now? How is this possible? 

“You talk a good game.”

“I have an active imagination,” Jared snaps, a little too defensive. “And I know what I want.”

Is there anything more frustrating than an alpha treating him like a delicate flower? 

Jensen tosses the condom at Jared. “Fine. Then pull your weight and show me.” 

Challenge accepted. Jared places his hand on Jensen’s chest and pushes him to lie flat on the bed. He straddles Jensen’s thighs, finally in a position of power once again, and tears open the packet. Lust and longing simmer to a boil in his hips. Jensen’s cock feels softer than he thought it would in his hand. Soft to touch, but without a doubt hard. The condom glides down without a problem. Jared runs his fingers over the curve of Jensen’s knot. 

“You gonna play with it or you gonna ride it?” Jensen runs his hands over Jared’s thighs and gives them a squeeze. 

Jared almost asks how Jensen expects  _ that _ to fit inside him, but he’s also curious to find out. 

He simultaneously braces himself and tries to relax. Slick runs down the insides of his thighs as he lines them up. He thanks the universe for birth control. Without it, he’d be screwed. And not in a good way. 

The blunt, solid tip of Jensen’s cock pushes against him. He tries not to tremble, but loses the battle as the first two inches slide in. 

“Fuck,” he shouts, caught off guard by a surge of slick. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“That’s the… point,” Jensen grits out, his face flushed. “You’re killin’ me.” 

Panting, Jared shuts his eyes and forces himself to work past the warring sensations of pain and greed. He wants more, all of it all at once, but reality rears its ugly head. He leans back, hands on Jensen’s thighs, and adjusts the angle. As he exhales, he pushes his hips down. His cock bobs with every movement, impossibly hard and already leaking over Jensen’s stomach. 

Jensen places his hands over the curve of Jared’s ass and spreads him open slightly. He feels himself sink in further, and Jared struggles not to burn up in a ball of hormones and animalistic want. 

“Breathe,” Jensen orders, his cock buried halfway. “I’m gonna start moving.”

Together, they test out a rhythm. 

Jared meets every tentative thrust with a fierce, frenzied grind. Air punches out of his lungs in short, sharp breaths. He leans forward and presses his hands onto Jensen’s chest to hold himself up. The second Jensen picks up the rhythm, Jared feels something snap and release inside him.

“Heat,” Jared pants. “I’m in heat.”

Jensen falters in his rhythm. “Just… just like that?” 

Pain seizes a spot square in Jared’s chest in response to the lack of movement. He meets Jensen’s eyes. He wants to tell Jensen that it’s been a while since his last after school activity. Ultimately, he decides against it. Heats can be triggered by hormones or sudden spikes in arousal. “Don’t stop, please, not now.”

After an affirmative nod, Jensen adjusts their positions. He sits up for leverage and immediately tests out the durability of the mattress and bedframe underneath them. 

Scents of coffee, pine, and cologne wrap themselves around Jared, flooding his senses. He holds onto Jensen, chest to chest, and lets out a long, loud series of moans when he finally takes Jensen in almost all the way to the knot.

Stimulation overwhelms him--an unyielding flood. Everything takes on a sharper quality, as it always does whenever he goes into heat. The muscles in his thighs and ass clench against Jensen. A line of electricity threads itself from his chest to his cock to the pocket of nerves deep inside him. Jensen tilts their hips, Jared firmly in his lap, and even this slight adjustment provides a perfect catalyst.

With a squelch, Jared takes Jensen’s knot. 

“Coming,” he gasps, leaning back. “Coming… com-ing…!” 

Jensen pounds into Jared, his knot expanding, tying them together. He drags his hands down Jared’s back, then gropes Jared’s ass before giving it a resolute slap. He balances pain with pleasure, changing from one to the other on a dime. 

Jared sees stars. 

He comes in thick ropes, spurting everywhere, screaming out a string of obscenities. 

The world turns as Jensen flips them over. Jared hardly has time to adjust before Jensen’s knot swells and his cock drives in deep. In a series of incoherent whimpers and moans, Jared warns Jensen. Yet again, Jensen uses his mouth to dominate--he kisses Jared and bites down on his bottom lip.

Little more than a hormone-filled, heat-induced, sex-addled mess, Jared comes again, twice in a row, untouched and back to back. 

On Jared's third orgasm, Jensen comes, groaning into the crook of Jared’s shoulder. His rhythm falters. The muscles in his back and thighs contract as his hips stutter against Jared. Despite the barrier of the condom, Jared relishes every pulse of come from Jensen’s thick, satisfying knot.

A minute later, Jensen slumps against Jared, breathing hard, his eyes closed. 

Hormones and heat help Jared flip them over and start all over again. 

And again. 

And just one more time, fuck. 

After all the Morse-code hammering of their bodies, they lie together in what used to be Chuck’s office and convenient place to grab a nap or two.

_ The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I’m alive. _

Jared wonders if he should say that out loud. 

Jensen’s breathing soon levels out. For a split second, it seems like he might move to separate them. With previous partners, Jared would welcome that, ask for it, initiate the break. He does not enjoy lingering in come and sweat, or the inevitable follow-up questions like, “When will I see you again?” 

Uncharacteristic emotion peeks out from a place he regularly ignores in the back of his mind. January wind howls at the windowpane. 

For once, Jared doesn’t rush to leave. His body requires rest and this is as restful as he can manage for the moment. He doesn’t make excuses to bolt. Instead, he rubs slow circles into Jensen’s back with one hand, while the other plays with short strands of tawny hair. 

For a few, unsettling moments, he forgets about escaping Vienna.


	8. Chapter 8

**Jensen:**

Two days later, Jensen calls his mother. 

He catches her cleaning out the attic. 

If grief can be measured by the amount of cleaning done, then Jensen suspects his mother has an entire house worth of it to work through for the next few years. 

“Honey, it’s good to hear your voice,” she sighs into the receiver. “What are you up to? How ungodly cold is it up there? When are you fixing to visit?” 

Jensen does not mention that he is currently cleaning one of the guest rooms at the Vienna Lodge. Lucy did not ask him to, but she was more than happy to accept his offer. It was either clean something or grade more papers. There are only so many rough drafts of argumentative essays about fast food he can read in a day. And since his other distraction had to work on their photography project, Jensen chose to put on a pair of rubber gloves and grab a bottle of bleach.

“You’re not lifting anything heavy, I hope,” Jensen rumbles. He pauses from scrubbing grime off of tile in order to provide reassurance to a recently widowed woman in Texas, whose husband of thirty years passed away six months ago. 

“I wouldn’t have to worry about things like that if my son were around,” she answers, utilizing the most casual tone possible. 

“I’m stuck here until something opens up in either Chicago or Dallas, momma.” The plan was Dallas. Or anywhere in Texas. Even Houston, where truly no one in their right mind willingly settles. But the plan was to high tail it out of Illinois as soon as a full time, tenure track position opened up--away from the frozen tundra of Vienna and Anna. 

So what is wrong with his mouth that it sprouted the word Chicago?

“Honey, I know. A mother is still entitled to complain about her only son moving so far away.” On a dime, her tone transforms from reserved to animated. “Have you met any special someones?” 

Chicago may or may not be tied to a certain someone. Floppy hair. Long legs. Obnoxious smile. Dimples for days. 

Jensen sits on the floor of the bathroom and chucks the scrub brush into the tub. “Momma, I’m here to work. That’s the plan.”

Breezily, she replies, “It doesn’t do you any good to sit there all alone. Not while I’m here, wasting away without your father, waiting for grandchildren.”

Good lord. “Grandchildren are  _ definitely _ not part of the plan.”

“Not everything goes according to plan, Jensen Ross. I certainly never planned on meeting your father. Or losing him.” Her voice goes softer than her homemade angel food cake. “Some of the best things in life are the ones we don’t plan for.”

“Children,” Jensen murmurs, “are not one of those spontaneous things, momma.” 

With a short laugh, his mother jumps back into her familiar chatty self. “Bless your heart, Jensen-- _ you _ were one of those spontaneous things. So tell me. What are your students like?”

Over the next hour, he fills her in on the details relevant to Shawnee, Anna, and Vienna. He dishes on how Lucy often wakes up at four in the morning just to put on a pot of coffee and fry bacon, devours her meal, and climbs back into bed until noon. Then there’s the handful of English adjuncts at Shawnee that range from annoyingly optimistic to depressingly pessimistic. Some of his colleagues’ personal lives serve as bleak, horrible reminders of what teaching does to a person.

His mother, a thirty year veteran of the Dallas Public School system, reminds him that he’s got a long way to go. Most teachers, she adds, would rather receive a bottle of hard liquor at Christmas instead of another damn handmade ornament from a student.

Throughout their talk, Jensen finishes up the bathroom and fixes a few things around two more empty rooms. A burned out lightbulb here. A loose towel rack there. Makes note of certain walls that could use a fresh coat of paint. 

He sits on the twin bed of an empty room.

And wonders what Jared’s room looks like.

His mother’s voice brings him back to the present. “Honey, are you for sure eating well?” 

“I like the diner here,” he confides, careful to keep his voice quiet. “Food’s alright.” He carefully considers the following sentence, then pushes the words out of his mouth. “There’s a server who’s… interesting. You know that one book of poems I like?” 

“Of course I do.”

“Well, he’s read it too. Didn’t think I’d meet anyone who’d read it, much less memorized it.”

“He’s memorized it, huh?”

“Seems that way.”

“I wonder if you can tell me anything about his smile.”

“Momma.”

“Just curious! That’s all!”

“...confident. It’s confident.”

“Honey, he sounds wonderful--what’s his name?” 

The excitement in her voice makes him cringe. He doesn’t need her to be thinking about courtship, mating, marriage, and grandbabies before she even meets said individual. His father lived by a set plan and passed it down to Jensen, who would be incredibly irresponsible to veer off course from it just because of a twinge in his chest and the aimless wandering of his mind. 

A knock on the wall causes him to look up. 

“Jared,” Jensen blurts out, shoulders tensing up. He nearly drops the phone. 

“Technically, yes,” Jared quips, with a grin. “Won’t say no to ‘baby,’ ‘sweetheart,’ ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘Oh god yes, yes, yes.’” 

Jensen drops the phone. He scrambles to pick it up from the floor before forcing himself to calm the fuck down. He snaps at Jared, whispering, “How long have you been there?” With the receiver back to his shoulder, he apologizes to his mother. “Momma, can I call you back? Everything’s fine. Lucy just needs help flipping her mattress.” 

With a snort, Jared loudly comments, “Now there’s a thought--flipping the mattress. Why didn’t we think of that after you fucked me into it?” 

It would be great if life could go according to plan. Then Jensen would never have to worry in excess. He wouldn’t have to confront something he wanted versus something he knew he shouldn’t get involved in. The cynical, defensive, logical side of him screams to end whatever is happening between himself and this omega right here and now.

One second after he hangs up the phone, Jared grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him in for a cherry lip gloss kiss. 

The cynical, defensive, logical side of him waves good-fucking-bye.


	9. Chapter 9

**Jared** : 

It’s kind of fun to watch Jensen almost lose his shit over a surprise visit at the Lodge. 

They stand in the hallway for a minute and argue about boring shit like discretion and the consequences of flippant, spur of the moment actions. Jared stares Jensen down. 

“Underneath these jeans,” Jared interrupts, his arms folded over his chest, “is a pair of lacy red panties.”

Jensen turns the exact shade of red as said panties. 

Jared laughs and turns away from Jensen. “I’m not gonna show you now, you were mean to me.” 

“I wasn’t mean,” Jensen grumbles. He pulls Jared into his room and carefully shuts the door. “I thought you said it wasn’t a good idea for Lucy to see you here with me.” 

Could this man be any more tightly wound?

“Could you be any more tightly wound? Sheesh.” Jared surveys the room, which is totally unsurprisingly Spartan. “I like what you’ve done with the place, honey. It’s so… depressing.”

Unamused, Jensen frowns hard enough to crack ice. He stands as rigid as a mailbox. “Did you come here with a purpose other than to irritate me?” 

The only two places to sit in the room are either the lumpy bed or a stiff rocking chair in the corner. Faced with this important decision, Jared chooses the bed. Gingerly, he sets himself down and crosses his legs. “Sure I did, but you kind of have to be naked for it.” 

It’s obvious that Jensen has been cleaning all day, which means he’s also been worrying up a storm in his head. Before he left Chuck’s the other day, the man tried to dust counters and other incredibly unimportant shit on his way out. 

Of course, later that night, Jared engaged in his own strange behavior. He forced Angelita to listen to him prattle on and on about SAIC, the beauty of Chicago, and the benefits of an alpha that understands not all omegas desire to be treated like either delicate flowers or desperate brides-to-be. Once Angelita socked him with a pillow, he retreated to his room and worked on arranging photographs and poetry for his project. 

He thought of how indulgent it would be to listen to Jensen read off each line.

Ardent. Breathy. Candid. 

Jared sighs and shoves his ridiculous hormonal daydreams to the side. Besides, why daydream about mundane shit when they could be fucking the day away? The purely physical side of their deal is there for the taking. All he has to do is seize the opportunity for an excellent fuck and go on his merry way.

But then he thinks about cold, quiet nights spent indoors, curled up by a fire, the light of which reflects off of glass in dreamy sparks--and the solid, reliable press of his body against Jensen’s.

“Lucy,” Jared announces, not at all too loud, “is currently at Miss Leona’s. I know this cause I just finished my morning shift and the ladies are getting together for coffee and bridge.” He stretches out and peers up at Jensen. “If that ain’t good enough for you, I’m happy to go for a ride in your truck.”

Most of what Jared observes gets processed through photography choices. He often looks at the people or places around him and thinks about what aperture he’d use at a certain angle, what the exposure would be, whether or not he should go sharp or blurred for the background, and the balance of light within a certain setting. 

Whenever he looks directly at Jensen, he can never settle on one portrait idea. 

Towering over Jared, Jensen continues to frown. “I have work to do.”

“Do me first,” Jared quips. “Then work.”

“Thought you had your project to work on?”

“I did, at Leona’s, in between the bustling crowds.”

Jensen sits down on the bed, an arm’s length away from Jared. Is this man repressed or is he repressed? He casts a quick glance towards Jared’s hips. “What… what poetry are you using?”

A smile escapes Jared’s better judgment. He practically leaps from the bed and retrieves his backpack from the hallway where he had abandoned it earlier. With his portfolio in hand, he sits right next to Jensen, almost in his lap, and proudly displays his work. 

“I’m trying to use a good mix,” he explains, flipping through pages of the beaten up portfolio. “I need a minimum of twenty shots, plus a few lines of poetry for each one.”

“You took these?” Jensen’s eyes quickly scan both the black and white prints and each scrawl of writing pinned underneath. 

After a snort, Jared laughs. “No, the ghost of Christmas past did. Of course  _ I  _ did. They’re my ticket out of this hell hole.”

Jensen considers the comment. After a pause, he says, “So you’ve also got a plan.”

“It’s more like dreams,” Jared clarifies, momentarily brushing his hand over Jensen’s. “Plans are too rigid. Dreams, goals, aspirations, whatever… that’s more my style. All kinds of shit goes sideways with plans. Dreams can change.” He glances down at his red high tops. “Dreams have to change.”

Miss Lucy’s can be a quiet place when she’s not hosting poker games or listening to the radio at an inhuman volume. As kids, Jared and Angelita were often shuffled over to the Lodge to help Miss Lucy clean under the guise of being supervised for a few hours. He forgot what silence could feel like in a house. 

“ _ I looked out the window and said This doesn’t look that much different from home, because it didn’t, but then I noticed the black sky and all those lights. _ ” 

Jensen sounds better than a fresh cup of coffee in the middle of January.

Flipping the page to another photo and poem, Jensen continues. “ _ We were inside the train car when I started to cry. You were crying too, smiling and crying in a way that made me even more hysterical.I”  _ Flip. “ _ You said I could have anything I wanted, but I just couldn’t say it out loud.”  _ Flip. “ _ Actually, you said Love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s terrifying. _ ” 

Pictures of the landscape surrounding Vienna and Anna float past. Close ups, wide angle, ambient light, main light, hard light, edge transfer, lower contrast, higher contrast, hyperfocal distance--all techniques and types of shots used as he snapped pictures of anything that caught his interest. Barrels of hay or trailers along the highway. The warped sign hanging off of the diner. Stalks of wheat leaning against a fence. The clouds and sky before, during, and after a storm, sunset, and sunrise. 

A snapshot of the tire swing Uncle Grant put up for them the summer he turned ten. 

A portrait of his reflection in a fool’s gold mirror at the thrift store in Anna last summer.

“ _ You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back _ .” Jensen traces the edge of that last picture. 

Jared closes the portfolio and gently takes it from Jensen’s hands. He sets it aside, straddles Jensen’s lap, and wraps his arms around him for a kiss. 

“You read it just like I want,” Jared murmurs, breathless and aching. “Show me what else you can do.”

On the narrow bed, Jensen discovers the convenience of lacy red panties. He blows Jared through them, grinds against them, and only pushes them aside so he can fuck Jared into a whole new mattress. They settle, chest to back, Jared on his stomach, while Jensen pounds into him and the headboard bangs against the wall. Jensen’s hands roam, uninhibited, less cautious and concerned. He handles Jared less like a pane of glass and more like an equal in strength and stamina.

And by the way Jensen gropes Jared’s ass, there’s no mistaking his desire.

The room fills up with the sound of two bodies--dynamic with energy and movement--pushing and responding against each other. Every inch of Jensen, from muscular thighs to possessive, commanding hands, wrenches out the sweat, slick, come, and tears from Jared. 

It’s Jensen’s rich and rough voice that utterly destroys him, whispered into his ear. Phrases of filthy, passionate praise and commands tumble out. Jared burns up. 

“Take it,” Jensen growls, nipping the shell of Jared’s ear. “Take it, darlin’.”

He takes Jensen’s knot in a series of rough thrusts. 

Jensen pins him down and moans into the space between Jared’s shoulder blades. His hips stutter, his hands fist the sheets, and he empties his knot in thick, long pulses. 

Jared wishes he could get a picture of them tied together like this--Jensen’s knot pressed tight inside him, the panties ruined, and the glisten of slick between both their thighs like rivulets. 

He reaches back and runs a hand through Jensen’s hair, trying not to shake so much. 

Panting, Jensen nods and settles them to lie on their sides. They move in fascinating coordination, all considering. While they don’t exactly cuddle, when Jared leans back into Jensen’s chest, tucking himself under Jensen’s chin, Jensen doesn’t move or grumble. Pleased, he basks in the slip of that affectionate word, full of drawl and unexpectedly possessive. 

If he could take a picture, Jared knows the lines he’d pin underneath it as a caption. 

_ Sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them _ . 


	10. Chapter 10

**Jensen:**

All the things Jared says, in a span of two weeks, that puzzle Jensen:

“Why the hell would you leave Texas for this place? It snows here, Jensen, didn’t you know that?”

“I hate vanilla ice cream.”

“I love strawberry ice cream.”

“Did you always have this many freckles?”

“Have you ever counted them?” 

“I hate my homework. I have to practice ten minutes of mindful meditation. How the fuck does that prepare me for college?” 

“I have a hole in my left sock, but not in my right sock. What am I doing wrong?”

“Goddamn tripod fell over again, almost busted my camera--what?! I was trying to take a self-portrait. You know, I have that irresistible, fucking attractive vibe. I’m the only one who can capture it.” 

“Yesterday, I drank three bottles of soda and I didn’t sleep until four in the morning and I feel kinda funny like I can see time and space and wow I’m tired.”

“Are you seriously wearing a sweater vest?”

“Seriously???” 

“Bet you can’t make me come in less than five minutes.”

“...okay, so you  _ can _ make me come in less than five minutes. Congratulations.”

“Bet I can’t make  _ you _ come in less than five minutes.”

“...yup. You’re  _ very _ welcome.”

“No. You’re not wearing khakis on a Saturday. You’re not. Oh my god. Will you get naked so I don’t have to see those ever again on a weekend? I’m asking you--please. Take. Off. Your. Pants.” 

“Good. Now that your pants are off, I want you to fling them straight into the pit of hell from whence they came. Thank you. You may blow me now.”

“I look damn good on you. You’re welcome.”

“Hey. I don’t like being told what to do unless I’m naked. And even then, ain’t no guarantee, so watch it.”

“Pull over, I see something I wanna shoot.” 

“See that? It’s a white-crowned sparrow. Holy shit, the light is perfect. Hold this? Thanks. Okay. Here we go. Low and slow. Perfect. Fuck. This is great.”

“Maybe next week we’ll spot a blackbird.”

“‘There are always two people in every picture: the photographer and the viewer.’” 

“What? Don’t look at me like that. I give awesome blow jobs  _ and _ I can quote Ansel Adams. Get outta my way, peasant.” 

“You know, I like spending time with you. I mean, mostly for the awesome sex, but your personality ain’t that bad. Kind of grumpy. Cranky. Definitely bossy. Questionable choices in fashion… what? If you’re so upset, pull over, get naked, and spank me. It’ll be worth it. I promise.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Jared** : 

All the things Jensen says, in a span of three weeks, that puzzle Jared:

“I’m a morning person.”

“I’ve been up since seven.”

“I like jogging. Keeps my mind focused.”

“Why does no one your age understand the importance of using a coaster? Use a coaster. I don’t care if this place is abandoned. Use a coaster.”

“Are you flirting or are you just being extremely friendly right now?”

“Why wouldn’t you want to go to SIU?”

“How do you survive at Chuck’s without a working bathroom? Oh. That’s… nevermind. Don’t tell me.”

“Why do so many people around here wear camouflage?”

“It’s just a new restaurant in Anna, what’s the big deal?” 

“I have no idea what you mean when you say, ‘Take a left at Sarah’s momma’s cousin’s house’ or ‘You need to turn right after you see Duane’s grandmother’s brother-in-law’s trailer.’ I don’t know any of these people--why can’t you just tell me the street names?”

“Y’all make sweet tea too sweet.”

“Once again. I have no idea what you mean by, ‘Make a right turn by where the old gas station used to be.’ Don’t roll your eyes at me. Just tell me where I’m going like a normal person.” 

“Why in the hell does everyone around here keep asking me about my accent? It’s not that different.”

“Should I be concerned that I heard some of my students planning to drink something called Fireball?”

“Or that they’re going to drive into Kentucky to buy fireworks?”

“No one believes in rough drafts. They should.”

“I like cleaning.”

“Why on earth would anyone build the World’s Largest Catsup Bottle or a 25ft Geriatric Walker? No, I don’t want go to either of those and no, I don’t want my picture taken in front of them.” 

“I will agree to go to the Shawnee National Forest.”

“ _ No _ \--I will never go on the zipline.”

“Can I see your portfolio again?”

“Do you have any new pictures I can see?”

“How do you get this effect?” 

“‘The eye should learn to listen before it looks.’” 

“Yes, I know that’s a Robert Frank quote. I know a few things outside of expository essays, grammar, and how to write a clear thesis statement.”

“Yes, we have sweet tea in Texas. No, we don't all wear ten gallon hats. Where the hell did you get that from? Check your sources.”

“I like your photos.”

“I think they’re good.”

“Go to sleep. I’ll wake you up when we have to leave.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Jensen:**

Every day for the next three weeks, Jensen spends more time at Chuck’s than he does at The Vienna Lodge. One of the booths in the non-smoking section slowly became his grading headquarters--it’s the booth with the least amount of secondhand smoke grime, the least sticky table, and the best lighting. A propane heater makes it possible to work without the risk of frostbite and a battery powered lantern provides necessary light. 

Every now and then, Jared will light candles and pretend that’s all the light they need. He isn’t completely wrong about that. 

If it wasn’t for the occasional field mouse scurrying through, the leaky roof, and the questionable strength of the walls, the place might just be salvageable. In its heyday, it was probably cozy. 

At Chuck’s, Jensen grades papers, reads passages of upcoming assigned material, edits syllabi for this semester and beyond.

Somehow, he also manages to see how many times Jared can scream his name every afternoon.

In a physical sense, Jensen understands exactly how he feels towards Jared. No matter what position, no matter what location, whenever they fuck, Jensen craves more. Their bodies respond to each other. The coldest room in the cafe transforms into a sauna not ten minutes after they start kissing. Touching, grinding, fucking--it kindles an intensity in Jensen he very much welcomes.

_ You’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist _ .

He knows exactly how to kiss Jared and evoke a variety of responses. How to turn Jared into a wobbly, pliable, needy mess. How to take back control whenever Jared thinks he has the upperhand. How to tease, tempt, torment, and thrill him with a few flicks of his tongue.

But.

Goddammit. There’s always got to be a  _ but _ .

Shit can’t just work out in a simple, clear-cut way, can it? 

He enjoys the physical company of another human being. This human being seems to enjoy the presence of his physical company. It should stop there. It needs to stop there. This is cut and dry. Easy. They have an arrangement and it works. Everyone gets what they want. 

There’s no need to drag any kind of mushy emotion or sentiment into this.

That’s what he thinks to himself on Saturday at midnight, trudging up the stairs of the Lodge, headed to his cramped, musty room, the smell of sex, sweat, and cherry lip gloss still on him.

His back against the closed door, Jensen stares at his empty bed.

_ You feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for. _

A sigh escapes him.

No.

_ Eventually something you love is going to be taken away. And then you will fall to the floor crying. You knew it would happen and, even worse, while you’re on the floor crying you look at the place where the wall meets the floor and you realize you didn’t paint it very well _ .

This isn’t part of the plan. This isn’t something he can spray bleach on and scrub away. When his father passed away, he committed himself to work twice as hard at achieving his goals in the exact order planned. School. Job. Career. House. Marriage. Family. 

That is the way it  _ must _ be. A good alpha provides for his family without a shadow of doubt. The best alpha plans ahead of time for his future family and leaves nothing to chance.

Jensen scrubs his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Jared said something earlier today, right after they had just finished fucking on the narrow bed in Chuck’s office. They were sticky. Messy. Out of breath. Slightly dizzy and definitely sore. 

Curled up against Jensen, Jared made himself comfortable, claiming he was cold. 

“I have all these things I wanna do,” Jared murmured, lying on his side, one leg slung over Jensen’s hips. “I wanna go to Chicago and become a famous photographer. I wanna eat steak every night. I wanna take a cab everywhere because I’m just that important and because I have somewhere to go.” 

A second later, Jared sat up, stretched, and looked back at Jensen. 

“Everyone wants me to go SIU so I’m close by. I applied, but I ain’t holding out for it.” He gave Jensen a small smile. “You know, I could take some pretty good pictures of you.” 

“Nah,” Jensen grumbled and hid his face in the pillow. “No reason to do that.”

“Hmph. Well, then.” Jared cleared his throat. His hair was a mess. His lips were bruised. His eyes were bright. He struck a dramatic pose. “Watch me as I grovel at your feet. Control my spineless whimpering body. Punish me as I fall out of line.”

Jensen crawls into his lumpy bed and turns off the light.

He closes his eyes and replays the rest of that scene.

“Stop talking,” he had muttered and tried to hit Jared with a pillow. 

Louder, shriller, Jared continued. “An empty shell, I am nothing!” He tumbled back, sprawling over Jensen, and made himself dead weight. “A slave, a drone! Your servant till death!”

Painfully laughing, Jensen shoved at Jared. “No more! Quit it!”

“You have destroyed my creative mind,” Jared wailed, then latched himself onto Jensen so that they lay chest to back. Near Jensen’s ear, he laughed, “I am an empty, barren wasteland. Completely forgotten.”

The next few words that came to Jensen’s mind, he did not say out loud. He didn’t dare. And he won’t admit it out loud to anyone. Doing so would stray from the plan. 

His laugh from earlier echoes in his mind. What a fucking traitor to his own resolve. He storms over to the bathroom and starts his nighttime routine. A different kind of restless weariness sets in, all over, from bones to muscles to joints. 

In his own, proper bed, Jensen punches one of the pillows and orders his body to go to sleep. He shuts out the howl in the back of his mind--a confession too overwhelming and disturbing to dwell on. It must be squashed. Immediately. For everyone’s benefit. Two days before the heart attack that killed him, his father pulled Jensen aside after dinner to insist that Jensen draft a plan and stick to it. 

No matter how alluring, appealing, bewitching, charming, or engaging the distraction, he can’t deviate from sane, reasonable thinking and careful, solid decisions.

He works to forget the fact that the next few words he wanted to say were:  _ I could get used to this. _


	13. Chapter 13

**Jared:**

Midterms in the second week of March wreaks havoc on the lives of innocents throughout Vienna. 

And by innocents throughout Vienna, Jared means himself. 

He cannot wait to be done with high school. His two college classes at Shawnee haven’t been centers of intellectual vigor, but at the very least he is treated like an individual capable of making decisions. Bless her heart, his English 203 professor, Ms. Da Capo, tries her very best to engage the class in her lectures about analytical arguments--she just never quite hits a homerun. 

Jared grumbles about Ms. Da Capo’s latest assignment--write a five page essay about creativity and critical analysis--while lying naked in bed with her colleague.

Jensen raises an eyebrow at the deluge of complaints, but says nothing in response. Not quite as naked as Jared, he continues to highlight sections of  _ The Craft of Research. _

“I find your behavior incredibly offensive,” Jared adds, turning over to lie on his stomach. “We’ve been here twenty minutes and you’re working when you could be fucking me.”

“I said I had to work and you said you understood,” Jensen murmurs. His eyes do not leave the page for even a second. “And you’re lucky you got Lonnie. I’m not as lenient as she is with grading or assignments.” 

How can someone so physically gorgeous be so frustrating? 

Rolling his eyes, Jared scoffs, “This isn’t Harvard, Professor Ackles.” 

“No one said it was.”

“Ugh.”

“You could work on your essay.”

“I could  _ not _ .” Jared glares daggers at Jensen, then rolls to lie on his side, facing away from Mr. Studious. “It’s not due until Monday.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“Exactly.” 

Inspiration and restless energy fuel Jared’s executive decision to get the hell out of bed. He climbs over Jensen, tosses on his oversized coral sweater, and walks over to Chuck’s desk. Maybe he wouldn’t be so frustrated if the week hadn’t been so busy for both of them--Jensen with grading and Jared with finishing assignments or studying. 

Jared fishes through his backpack and extracts his camera from its case.

He received letters from SIU and SAIC two days ago, and hasn’t opened then yet, much less told a single soul about them. 

Uncle Grant gave him the Nikon FE 35mm SLR on his thirteenth birthday. Designed as a camera for an advanced enthusiast, it cost a chunk of money when Jared’s father bought it brand new just before Jared’s first birthday. 

In order to use it, Jared sat down with Uncle Grant to learn about aperture and speed settings. From there, Jared took courses as electives at school and at the Rec Center in Anna. With no photography studio at Shawnee, Jared works with his high school Photography teachers as part of independent study.

SAIC offers access to distinguished faculty, state-of-the-art equipment, a fully-stocked dark room, and an eclectic curriculum.

That’s what it says on their brochures, which he has long since memorized.

This semester, Mr. Holding, who usually teaches Chemistry classes, challenged Jared to work on his composition. Do all the elements of the frame support the subject, or are there distractions that cause the viewer’s attention to stray? 

The lens of the Nikon gravitates towards Jensen.

Every photograph relies on composition, exposure, focus, and emotional impact in order to tell a story. Jared bites his bottom lip. He adjusts the shutter speed to freeze the movement of Jensen’s hands. The lighting could be better, but he can fix that in the dark room.

He licks his lips as his mind works a hundred miles an hour. If he had unlimited funds for film, he’d take multiple shots and decide on the best ones later. Since funds are very much limited, he searches for the right choice of angle, then any contrast, followed by shape and texture. He strikes gold as he finds the perfect aspect to highlight. 

“You grew a beard,” Jared coos from behind his camera. “Now  _ that’s _ a face I could sit on.”

Predictably, Jensen’s brow furrows. Self-conscious, he rubs his chin. “What’re you doing?” 

Not only does facial hair accentuate Jensen’s chiseled jawline, but it frames his lips in a way Jared didn’t know he needed. “Homework,” Jared quips. “You told me to do homework.”

“Don’t think that’s part of your essay,” Jensen mutters. He finally closes his goddamn book and shoves papers to be graded away, underneath the bed. 

Think twice, shoot once. Jared snaps another picture, this time focusing on Jensen’s mouth. “Haven’t you ever heard of a photo-essay? As in photojournalism? A truly noble field of work meant to capture the human spirit without the use of words? Photos that, when placed in a specific order, tell the progression of events, emotions, and concepts?” 

“Good lord. Do I even wanna know where you memorized that from? Or what your photo-essay would say?”

“It’d say: I’m sexually frustrated and forced to take pictures instead of fuck. Happy?”

“I put away my work. You’re the one holding up the show.” 

While it’s tempting to set his camera down and jump Jensen, Jared likes the lighting. He may not actually have a photo-essay assignment, but he does have a growing private collection of pictures. There may or may not already be a few pictures of a certain Texan who got lost on his way home and somehow wound up in Vienna, Illinois. 

Jared takes his time to set up another shot. He tries to find the angle where light falls just right on Jensen’s jawline--enough to provide contrast against his skin. He tries not to think too much about how good it’d feel to walk around with beard burn on his thighs for the next week. 

Exposing a photo correctly means potentially more dramatic results. 

“You like my ass, right?” Jared pushes off the desk and stands up, though he doesn’t set his camera down.

Jensen takes off his flannel button down and carefully hangs it over the headboard. He makes himself more comfortable in bed, placing his arms above and behind his head. “Suppose I do.” 

Shooting on film makes skin look good. Not that Jensen’s skin needs help. “Oh,” he scoffs. “How enthusiastic your reply.”

“I’m sorry, did you want me to recite sonnets about your ass?”

“It wouldn’t kill ya.”

“It might.”

“Would you follow my ass to Chicago?” 

Oh shit.

Did he just ask that? 

Through the camera, Jared watches as Jensen’s eyes widen. “What’s that?”

Jared cracks a joke in an effort to wipe Jensen’s memory of the previous question. “A big city on the edge of Lake Michigan, but that’s not important right now.”

It doesn’t work.

Scowling, Jensen sits up. “Jared,” he says, his tone biting. “Why are you asking me about Chicago?”

Jared snaps a picture of Jensen this way. It seems only fair. Lines of worry, frustration, and that odd grief-not grief make Jensen look older than he is. Jared lowers the camera a fraction and peers over it--the buffer between himself and a sure-fire rejection. Reality is for the weak. 

“I told you,” Jared answers with a shrug. This is fine. Totally fine. No big deal. “As soon as I get accepted, I’m fixing to move to Chicago so I can go to SAIC.”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

“Nope,” Jared mutters darkly. “Not at all.”

“No.” Jensen issues a frustrated sigh, grabs his button down and hastily throws it on. “ _ That _ cannot happen. I told you my plan. I’m gonna teach here for a year, then sign onto a University somewhere in Texas so I can keep teaching and get my PhD. Vienna. Anna. Chicago. It’s not in my plan. It was never part of my plan.” Dressed and ready to bolt, he hesitates, and adds, “You were never part of my plan.”

Stop. Look. Understand. Critique. All shit Jared had to learn in Beginner’s Photography as part of workshopping other students. It was supposed to teach them about avoiding knee-jerk reactions.

“You make shitty plans,” Jared snaps back. He sets his camera down on the desk and folds his arms over his chest. “But even shitty plans can change. I didn’t know you were so hell-bent on staying at Shawnee.”

Shoulders tense, Jensen answers slowly, enunciating as if he were talking to a four year old. “I have a career, Jared. I have to make sound decisions. I have to responsibly plan my future. That’s what a good adult does--it’s what a good  _ alpha _ does. And you? Your job is to go to school, follow your own plan, and don't let anyone hold you back. That's all.” 

With a roll of his eyes, Jared quips, “Spare me your precious lectures about having a plan. And don’t tell me what to do with my future. Jesus fuck. All you had to do was say something like, ‘Hey, let’s not talk about this right now, get over here and fuck me.’”

“Clearly that wouldn’t have worked.” Jensen stands close to Jared, feet wide apart, eye contact piercing. “This was supposed to be a fling, and now you want to talk about tossing both our plans out the window like this is some ridiculous romance novel. It's not going to happen. I won't let it.”

Jared refuses to back down. He gets into Jensen’s face because two can play at that game. “When are you gonna get that gigantic stick out of your ass, Jensen?” 

“The day you decide to think things through.” Jensen is the first to step away--poor consolation. 

“I think shit through. I just don’t obsess over it a thousand times and deny myself what I want. I get it. Your dad died. My parents have been dead for years and they don’t stop me from taking chances.”

“Stop.”

“Are you one of those alphas that’s so damn afraid of commitment, they have to run away with their goddamn tail between their legs?” Jared allows his voice to twist into something bitter. “I ain’t asking you to marry me or provide for me or even to call yourself mine.”

Jensen’s shoulders bristle. He tenses up, tighter than a closed tripod. “What do you know about commitment, Jared? You’re not even out of high school. And we’d both be fools to lay any kind of claim when whatever this is going nowhere.”

Anger boils up from Jared’s stomach to his throat. He might spit fire. 

Except stupid, horrible, awful,  _ stupid _ sadness crawls down his mouth and smothers the flame. 

“ _ I sleep. I dream. I make up things that I would never say. I say them very quietly _ ,” he mumbles off and turns away from Jensen. “I didn’t plan whatever this is, either. But looks like I’m the only one brave enough to try and plan around it.”

Jensen shakes his head and gathers his things. He quickly grabs his briefcase from the desk. In the process, he knocks Jared’s camera onto the floor. 

It lands lens down and breaks into three pieces. 

Jared leans against the desk, his mouth open in shock. Maybe he should have put more thought into asking Jensen about the future. Maybe he should’ve just left the man alone entirely. 

Maybe then Jared wouldn’t be standing in nothing but a sweater, with more broken than just his father’s camera. 

Hours later, at home, after he locks himself in his room, he opens both letters. 

He cries and laughs at the words in each one. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Jensen** :

_ You’re falling now. You’re swimming. This is not harmless. You are not breathing. _

One week.

_ I woke up in the morning and I didn’t want anything, didn’t do anything, couldn’t do it anyway, just lay there listening to the blood rush through me and it never made any sense, anything. _

Two weeks.

_ Here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed. _

Three weeks.

_ Let him lay his head on my chest and we will be like sailors, swimming in the sound of it, dashed to pieces. Makes a cathedral, him pressing against me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars _ . 

Six weeks.

_ I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you’ve taken something out of me and I have to search my body for scars _ .

The rest of the semester is a festival of misery. 

At the start of week one, Jared's aunt called him at the Lodge and sadly explained that other arrangements had been made for Jared’s transportation. She relayed that it would've been nice if things had worked out for the entire semester, since they seemed to get on so well. Jensen murmured something vague and thanked her for calling. 

In the middle of week two, Jensen caught a glimpse of Jared on campus, and stupidly thought about shouting his name and begging for forgiveness. Or at the very least offering to pay for some of the camera. However, Jared moved too fast and never once looked back.  _ As he shouldn’t, _ a dark, menacing voice whispered. Jensen made his bed. He has to sleep in it--whether or not he likes it.

On Tuesday of week three, Maud called Lucy who informed him that the apartment in Anna was ready.

That Friday, Jensen packed up his truck, thanked Lucy, and drove twenty miles to Anna, where he should have been all along.

Upon his arrival, Maud whistled and clucked, “Good lord, you look like you’d have to die to feel better. The heck is goin’ on with you? Homesick already?” 

For the first time in his entire life, Jensen did not immediately clean his surroundings upon arrival. 

The apartment needed a scrub. He just couldn’t bring himself to care.

Even the change in seasons hasn’t helped his mood. If anything, the presence of sunshine, blooming flowers, and birds chirping have added to the sharp decline in any positive outlook or regard for humanity. Eat. Work. Sleep. Eat. Work. Sleep. Eat. Work. Sleep. It wouldn’t matter if the entire one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment suddenly filled to the brim with gold bars and silver coins. He never strays from his routine and finds himself more productive at work than ever before.

At the beginning of finals week, the Dean extends to Jensen a contract to stay on as adjunct faculty in the fall. It guarantees work, which guarantees a paycheck. He took on two summer English 101 classes, and in the fall the Dean requested he take three 101’s and one 201. 

This should all be a cause for celebration. Most of the adjuncts at Shawnee never move past shouldering 101 and 102 courses. 

Instead, it’s a hollow victory.

On the day of finals, also the last day of classes, Jensen hands out an exam to each student. 

“You have forty-five minutes to complete the multiple choice section, which includes thirty multiple choice questions and ten reading comprehension questions.” He walks with the confidence of a skilled actor. “I suggest you all remember the suggestions I gave you about taking exams and be sure to read through things twice. Once you’re done with this section, come up to the front and I’ll hand you the essay portion. You’ll have two options and I expect three, well-written, concise paragraphs. You’ll have another forty-five minutes for that portion.”

One of his students, Clara, wore a pair of red Chuck Taylors to class. He hands her an exam and moves on. With all exams in the hands of their new owners, Jensen circles back to the desk up front and leans against it. 

“A few final words,” he says, his tone softer than what he used throughout the semester. “While this class may not be at the top of your list, it serves as a foundation. Whether or not you go onto a four year degree, you have all been presented with the tools and skills to craft constructive arguments, present information, and engage in critical thinking.” 

Red Chuck Taylors. Cherry lip gloss. Fire engine lace.

Jensen clears his throat. “Think of Shawnee as your open door to whatever lies ahead. You may begin your exam. Time starts now.”

For the next few days, Jensen will work fourteen hours a day in order to grade everything. Three sections, each with thirty students means ninety finals to grade. While the multiple choice portion can be graded by machine, he doesn’t like leaving it all to chance and looks through for any errors. Thankfully, students won’t receive the exam back, so he doesn’t have to write comments or make corrections on the essays.

He spent two weeks putting together the final and getting it approved by the department head. After he earns a PhD, he’ll be the one adjuncts report to. Until then, every detail requires approval. 

While student take the exam, Jensen drafts a syllabus for an imaginary course: Writing the Fine Arts.

One of the first lessons would be how to write constructive critiques and criticism. For one of the assignments, he includes a photo essay project that combines poetry and photography. It would be a kick to ask students to analyze an opera or a sculpture, then defend their stance in an essay. The course would emphasize reflection, form, content, and experience. 

Hours later, Jensen packs up his briefcase, retrieves his coat and favorite highlighter from the adjunct faculty area, and drives the two minutes it takes to reach his apartment. 

_ You thought if you handed over your body he’d do something interesting _ .

A week later, exhaustion catches up to him and he stays inside for three days in a row. His mother calls, he answers so not to worry her, but he keeps his responses short and simple. Maud checks in on him, brings him chicken soup, and declares that he must have picked up one helluva cold to be so sick during Memorial Day weekend.

_ Personally, I’m a mess of conflicting impulses--I’m independent and greedy and I also want to belong and share and be part of a whole _ .

Two weeks later, he drags himself back to Shawnee and warns two new sets of students that he will not tolerate subpar or late work, and that he expects everyone to pass with at least a C average.

Red Chuck Taylors. Cherry lip gloss. Fire engine lace.

He avoids Vienna, despite Miss Leona’s invitation to come by for a cup of coffee and a slice of pie. Mrs. Nguyen corners him at the Walmart one Tuesday night and lets him know that a property on Elm dropped ten thousand dollars--could be a good investment for an alpha to make a home for himself. 

_ Did he find that one last tender place to sink his teeth in? _

Three weeks later, he discovers that the gas to Chuck’s has been shut off and someone slapped a condemned sign on the front. 

_ Even when I look away I am still looking _ .

For the Fourth of July, he drives nine hours from Vienna to Dallas. He half expects to see everyone wearing ten gallon hats. But no, Texas looks, smells, sounds, and feels just the way he left it.

Except for the For Sale sign outside his childhood home.

“Honey, it is  _ so  _ good to see you!” His mother hugs him with enough force to possibly break a few ribs.

“You too, momma.” 

She places her hands on his shoulders and gazes up at him, her wide brim sun hat providing much-needed shade. Her white sundress flutters from a gust of wind. “Jensen Ross, you look a mess.”

He rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Thank you, momma, just what I wanted to hear.”

“Then cover your ears,” she quips and leads him into the house. “Get washed up and settled in, we’ve been invited to a barbeque at the Washington’s. Harriet has been asking about you for the longest time, good lord, I thought she’d never give up.”

The house isn’t completely empty, but it lacks the personal details that made it home. She worked for weeks with the realtor--thankfully not Mrs. Nguyen, though that might have made for a good phone call or ten--to get the house staged and ready to be placed on the market. Within three days the realtor received an offer. His mother declined the first offer as instructed and waited. Part of Jensen’s visit will be to help her decide which offer to accept and what to do next.

“Harriet’s your age,” Jensen reminds her, lugging his suitcase behind him. He accepts a glass of lemonade and downs it in a few gulps. 

“Watch that tone,” she huffs, but smiles right after. Like a dove, she flutters around the kitchen with familiar ease. “I’ve got a fruit plate to take over and cold ham sandwiches. I’m hopin’ Audrey made fried chicken. And I can only pray that Lauren took the hint and didn’t make her marshmallow Jello mold. It’s a picnic, not a horror movie.”

“Did you mention something about Harriet?” 

“I’ll let her tell you when we get there--go shower! I left you a clean towel and a change of clothes in your bathroom.”

Jensen leaves his suitcase in his room, which has been professionally staged but largely untouched, then takes a few minutes to walk around. He half expects his father to be sitting in the library, in his armchair, reading through cases for clients despite it being Saturday. 

Instead, Jensen occupies the armchair. He closes his eyes and sighs, grateful that his mother and the realtor left it out. They packed up most of the law encyclopedias, reference books, and files and replaced them with houseplants and one intriguing detail. 

“Honey,” his mother says, quietly from the doorway. “You doing okay?” 

“Yeah.” He clears his throat and stands up. “I just wanted to visit.”

It looks like she debates between a hug and a pat on the shoulder. She sweeps him into another hug. “This is tough as shit, isn’t it?” 

In a perfect world, he’d know what to say to make them both feel better. He lets out a short laugh and nods, embracing her in return. “Sure is.” 

_ I make you pancakes, I take you hunting, I talk to you as if you’re really there… Let’s jump ahead to the moment of epiphany, in gold light, as the camera pans to where the action is, lakeside and backlit, and it all falls into frame, close enough to see the blue rings of my eyes as I say something ugly. _

_ I never liked that ending either. More love streaming out the wrong way, and I don’t want to be the king that says the wrong way. _

“Honey?” Tender hands rub circles against his back. “Honey, you’re shaking. What’s wrong?” 

_ Dear Forgiveness, I saved a plate for you.  _

_ Quit milling around the yard and come inside. _

He finds his voice, raw as it is, and says, “There’s... someone I didn’t plan for… and I think it’s too late to make it right.” 

Even the best laid plans need to change.


	15. Chapter 15

**Jared:**

Moving into the dorms turned out to be way more overwhelming than Jared had anticipated.

Packing up the majority of his belongings was difficult for a few reasons. One, his Aunt would not allow him to chuck everything into boxes at random. Two, Angelita kept trying to either take things from him like his prized pair of vintage black Chuck Taylors, or shove things off on him like old bottles of nail polish. Three, Uncle Grant kept interrupting by “casually” stopping to impart pearls of wisdom about college life.

And it sucked, more than he cared to admit, to see his room gradually empty out.

He had spent so much of his life dreaming about leaving Vienna, that when the day came, he found himself oddly sentimental. No more trailer park or hay bales or quiet residential streets with the same neighbors that had been there for the past fifty years.

No more sneaking off to Chuck’s for a few hours of privacy, either by himself or with…

“I will drive here once a month to make sure you are eating more than pizza and coffee,” Aunt Maria threatens, hugging Jared with the ferocity of a grizzly bear. “I don’t expect you to call every day, but I want to hear from you, understood?”

“I’m gonna be busy,” Jared whines and fails at keeping his poker face. “I’ll forget about all the little people that helped me get here.”

Taking a cue from his book, she rolls her eyes. “God help your professors.”

The thought of professors unseats Jared’s confidence--the confidence he’s been working on all fucking summer. He is a strong, independent omega. Strong, independent omega. If he repeats that to himself long enough, he might start to believe he made the right decision.

Classes start in two days. He won’t make it back to Vienna until Thanksgiving break, an entire three months away.

“You can’t visit all the time,” Jared murmurs into her shoulder. “It ain’t exactly a leisurely drive.”

Aunt Maria wipes away tears from her eyes and clears her throat. She pats Jared’s cheek. “I made a promise to your parents to take care of you. If I hear you’re misbehaving or if you need anything, I will be here so fast…”

“I know, I know. But I can’t miss you if you don’t leave.” Jared wriggles out of the hug that has become a choke hold. “Uncle Grant is waiting downstairs.”

“He can wait,” she snaps and pulls him in for another hug. “I wish you would have let us buy you a new camera.”

Jared closes his eyes for a brief second and thinks of freckles. Solid hands. A crooked smile. Green eyes.

He swallows the lump in his throat. “I have all the pieces,” he whispers. “I’ll fix it with what I saved up working at the rec center. Just don’t turn my room into a home gym.”

She forces a laugh. “Delusions, already? Maybe I should take you back home.”

“I’ll be fine. I swear. I memorized the house number and our street address back when I was six.”

A few minutes later, Jared fights the urge to break down and cry as he waves goodbye to his family. Maybe he should have stayed in Vienna. Maybe he should have settled down with an alpha and relegated photography to a hobby. Maybe he should have gone to SIU.

He clutches the last box to take up to his dorm room and watches Uncle Grant’s minivan disappear into the sea of cars on State Street.

The sounds of Chicago surround him.

Cabs honking. Ambulances wailing. People talking.

_I make you pancakes, I take you hunting, I talk to you as if you’re really there._

Jared takes a deep breath and turns around to head inside and finish unpacking.

“Did you need help with that?”

That voice could belong to any of the two million people who call Chicago home. Instead, it belongs to a Texan who shouldn’t be anywhere near Chicago.

“Holy shit,” Jared blurts out and drops his box. “What in the hell are _you_ doing here?”

Jensen offers up a small smile as a truce. In his hands, he holds a gift box, wrapped in plain paper with a red bow on top. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“And?” Jared presses, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m an idiot.”

“Hmm.”

“I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.”

“Okay.”

“...I followed your ass to Chicago.”

Jared tries and fails to hold back a laugh. He shakes his head. “Yeah, alright, I guess you did. After this you can get back in your truck and follow through on your ‘plan,’ Professor.”

Jensen steps forward. He bites down on his bottom lip and holds out the gift box. “I wanna offer to fix your camera and also give you this.”

“You don’t have to. I forgive you. I don’t blame you for anything,” Jared grumbles, internally losing his shit. He taps the toe of his sneaker against the pavement. “An’ it wouldn’t be right to take anything from you when you’re just gonna leave after.”

“Maybe you should open it and then decide.”

People swerve around them, oblivious to the exchange and the epic unfurling right smack in front of them. Jared wants to call out that one of the most emotionally repressed alphas in the world just apologized to him. That in itself is a win.

His curiosity wins and he opens the box, slipping the red bow into the back pocket of his jeans. He peers inside and gasps.

Jensen snaps to attention. “Is it okay? I mean, I don’t know two things about stuff like this, but it used to be my dad’s. I guess he dabbled in it during law school. Momma found it and I… fuck, usually it’s you doing all the talking. Say something.” Jensen places his hands on Jared’s shoulders. “Please?”

A rare, pristine Leica M-3, 35mm, two-stroke model camera rests on delicate tissue paper.

“I can’t,” Jared mumbles, his breath catching. “Jensen, this thing is worth at least a thousand dollars! And it was your dad’s, oh my god.”

The smile on Jensen’s face transforms into a puzzled frown. “Well…” He reaches into his pocket. “If you won’t accept the camera, the only thing I got left is the second set of keys to my apartment.”

“What? You mean the Miss Maud’s spare place?”

“Nope. I’m a few blocks that way.”

Jared dares to smile. He holds on tight to the camera. “I think you’re lost.”

“I think,” Jensen murmurs, leaning in, “you’re talking back to the newest full-time, tenure track English professor at Columbia College. Which I believe is SAIC’s competition.”

“You wish,” Jared scoffs and grins.

“I cleaned the kitchen at my mother’s friend’s house back in Dallas. She talked to me about her nephew’s gig at Columbia and mentioned that they were looking to hire someone on a tenure track.--as long as they were willing to relocate to Chicago.”

“What happened to your plan?” He meets Jensen’s eyes.

Jensen hands the keys over to Jared.

“Darlin’, it’s more like a dream,” Jensen corrects, lightly pressing a kiss to Jared’s lips. “Like someone said. ‘Plans are too rigid. Dreams, goals, aspirations, whatever… that’s more my style. All kinds of shit goes sideways with plans. Dreams can change.’” He glances down at Jared’s red high tops. “Dreams have to change.”

Jared laughs and walks two steps ahead of Jensen.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He motions for Jensen to hurry up. “C’mon. Follow my ass a little further and I’ll show you around.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo! thank you for reading. <3 this was such a wonderful fic to work on and i got very much attached to these two along the way. 
> 
> if you'd like to know how you can follow other work and bonus fics, or help with transplant out of pocket stuff (like parking at the hospital), visit my tumblr: www.compo67.tumblr.com.


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